


Fire In the Blood

by siriuslyhiddenlawyer



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, Established Sherlolly, F/M, Married Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper Kissing, Sherlolly - Freeform, Vamp!lock, Vampire Sherlock, Vamplock, With A Twist, mollock, mollock fanfic, mollock fanfiction, molly hooper and sherlock holmes - Freeform, molly x sherlock, pregnant sherlolly, sherlock x molly, sherlolly fanfic, sherlolly fanfiction, sherlolly fluff, sherlolly one shot, sherlolly smut, sherlolly with a twist ending, vampirelock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-05-04 15:58:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14596536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriuslyhiddenlawyer/pseuds/siriuslyhiddenlawyer
Summary: Sherlock Holmes texts Molly Hooper after getting back from an investigation, telling her not to come to Baker Street or seek him out. Getting worried, Molly decides to go to Sherlock, only to make a shocking, unexpected discovery about the world's only consulting detective.





	Fire In the Blood

**Author's Note:**

> This is a rare request granted for one of my favorite people MelLovesAll. I hope you ALL enjoy it and let me know what you think!

**_Fire In the Blood_**         

If she’d learned anything over the course of her relationship with Sherlock Holmes it was to trust him, and know that if he needed her, he would let her know. They’d been together for over a year now, ever since he’d shown up at her door in the middle of the night after the strange phone call, to tell her that he’d meant it.

            That damned phone call…

            She stared at her phone now, frowning down at it, her thoughts fluttering around her randomly, thinking that the phone she’d used to answer him was upstairs, still getting used to this new one in her palm. But of course, being with Sherlock meant that the strange texts and phone calls were endless and expected in their unexpectedness.

            Like Sherlock texting a few days ago, letting her know he and John were back from their investigation that had led them to some far away Eastern European country she couldn’t name. Her heart had fluttered, her skin heating as she thought about their reunion, warming at the thought of being in his arms, in his bed, taking him into her body…But he’d sent her another text, telling her to stay away from Baker Street and from him for another few days. When she’d asked why, his response had been terse, even in text form.       

            So, she’d stayed away, but she had texted John asking what had a happened. He’d been uncharacteristically silent, telling her to wait for Sherlock. Concern had bloomed in her chest, but she’d fought the urge to simply go to Baker Street and break down the door if she needed to. She was patient, but this was day three and she was missing Sherlock, and there was something sacrilegious about Sherlock being in London and her not being able to go to him.

            Mind made up, she left her flat, pulling on a jumper as she hailed down a cab, not caring about the late hour, the cold breeze not registering, the full moon barely peaking her interest as it watched her from behind thick, gloomy Summer clouds. Her entire focus was on Baker Street and the man that was there, the man whose skin she craved with a distracted madness she couldn’t quite understand, had never believed she was capable of.

            His skin _was_ an addiction, the taste of him an endless desire, a heady urge, a thought, a palpable presence in her life, her need for him an entity that followed her everywhere, a heavy shadow…she had thought that once she knew she belonged to him, that he loved her, that they shared a life, a bed, a breath, she would be able to find some sanity but with each kiss, the addiction became worse, the need an electric currant. Molly knew that if she lived a thousand lifetimes, she would never get tired of the way his ears turned bright red when he orgasmed inside her, the way he could never quite keep his eyes closed when he was kissing her, the way he surged inside her, the expression on his face so intense, so concentrated, the feeling of his breath against her throat as he took her. She would never get the tired of his deep baritone and the breathless way he moaned her name after his orgasm, the way his eyes danced when he called her darling when they were alone…

            _Sherlock_.

            She wondered if he was as addictive as heroin, and knew he was worse than caffeine and nicotine...

            _Just one taste_.

            _Just one hit._

            _More._

_More._

_More._

            She felt nervous when she got to Baker Street, slightly worried as she paid her fare, wondering why he’d demanded she stay away. Molly faltered in her step, suddenly stopping in front of Speedy’s, terrified as she wondered if he’d started using again. But she quickly dismissed the thought, thinking that John, if not Mycroft, would have told her… _right_?

            Using her key, she went inside the flat, climbing the stairs two at a time and frowning at the door that stood slightly ajar. She stopped on top of the stairs, listening for any sounds from Mrs. Hudson downstairs or for any sound of life from inside Sherlock’s flat. Frowning, something tightening in her chest, making her anxious as she pushed open the door, “Sherlock?” she called, frowning at the darkened flat, the flimsy drapes replaced with heavy burgundy colored ones, the entire place drowning in darkness, “Darling?” she called, thinking that maybe he _had_ started using again.

            “What are you doing here?” he asked standing directly behind her, making her jump, wondering how she hadn’t heard his movement behind her, especially with that telltale floorboard a few paces behind her.

            “Jesus,” she gasped, “you scared me,” she clutched her chest, turning around to face him, “I—I—” his eyes were so intense, a burning white light, his lips drawn tight, his jaw clenching as he frowned down at her, so imposing, so _big_. “I got—I was—you see, when you didn’t—”

            “Molly,” he interrupted her stammering, impatient with her inability to speak, stepping into her, his skin snow white against the purple of his shirt, the first few buttons undone to reveal his long throat, the red mark on the side of his neck making her frown, “what are you doing here?”

            “I was worried,” she told him, dragging her eyes back up to his, swallowing against the fear that suddenly gripped her, feeling as if she were a wounded gazelle caught in the crosshairs of a starving jaguar.

            He took another step towards her, his chest flush against her now as he looked down at her, the muscles in his jaw clenching rhythmically as she shivered, thinking it must be her imagination that he was cold to the touch, making her nipples harden as she gasped for breath, “I told you not to come until I told you.”

            “I-I know,” she stammered, “but I couldn’t,” she closed her eyes, looking away and felt her thoughts shift and finally flow again, “Sherlock, I had to see you. What’s happening? What aren’t you telling me?”

            “I _told you_ not to come,” his voice was a growl, God that baritone couldn’t have gotten deeper, could it? “I didn’t want you here because I didn’t want you in danger. And here you are, charging in as you always do, destroying all my plans.”

            “Danger? What danger?” she looked up at him frowning, her thoughts feeling muddled again, as if someone had hijacked her hard drive.

            “Molly,” he reached up with his right hand, his fingers shockingly cold as he touched her cheek, his touch light, a whisper, “I need you to leave, right now.”

            She shook her head stubbornly, gripping the front of his tight shirt in her fists to emphasize her point, “no,” she breathed, her voice only slightly trembling, “not—not until you tell me what’s happening. What’s wrong.”

            Sherlock moved his broad hand down her cheek, his eyes following the movement of his hand as it traced across her jaw before he cupped her throat in his palm, his long fingers nearly completely engulfing her slender neck as she panted. She wasn’t afraid of him, she’d felt this touch a million times, usually with both hands as he leaned into her for a kiss, or even when they stood toe-to-toe to talk. She had the strangest feeling he was taking her pulse, his head slightly tilted, those pale eyes filled with a ferocity that rooted her to the spot, “Sherlock,” she breathed, “tell me. How can I help?”  
            His smile was tight even as it crinkled the corners of his eyes. Usually when he smiled, that soul searing smile, his mouth would open wide too, revealing his lips as he grinned but why was he keeping his lips tightly drawn over his mouth? She shook the thought away.

            “Molly Hooper,” he said softly, “ever my champion.”

            She laughed softly, “tell me,” she repeated.

            “You’re in danger Molly,” he told her, his thumb stroking over the pulse point on her throat, “you need to run away, as fast as you can, and not look back.”

            “What happened?” she grew frustrated, “did you catch some—some infectious disease or something while you were away? You’re acting crazy!”

            “You could say I _did_ catch some disease,” he murmured, “what would you do then?”

            She blew out a breath, “I’m here aren’t I?”

            “Something happened,” he finally told her, “something….unexpected, unnatural. We were—we were chasing a suspect, a woman we thought had killed a long list of lovers. We…followed her and she trapped…me, John escaped, thank God. But uhm,” he shook his head, “and Molly I need you to know that I tell you this after days of rumination and obsessive thought and thorough analyses, I need you to remember that this is _me_ speaking these words.”

            “Okay,” she said slowly, watching him closely.

            “I believe—” he cleared his throat, his hand still wrapped gently around her throat, his eyes still on her pulse, “I believe I was—attacked by a…vampire.”

            “What!” she yelled before she could stop herself.

            His chuckle was soft, “I told you to keep in mind the speaker.”

            “I know but…” she shook her head.

            He tilted his neck to the side, showing her the red mark on his neck, “she was of slight frame, the woman who attacked me. Shorter than you, more petite but I couldn’t shake her off, she held me down with inhuman strength. I’ve never felt anything like that in my life,” his eyes were so sincere, his words clear as were his eyes, and she found herself believing him as she looked at the marks on his throat.

            _Holy shit_.

            Two perfect puncture marks, the appropriate width of canines from each other but thicker in diameter, her years of training as a pathologist letting her see that whatever had made the marks had been very sharp before expanding with a downward motion. “She drained me,” he continued, “and—I guess turned me—before John got to us. But it was…it was too late by then. I went through…the change, whatever you want to call it, the metamorphosis, a few hours after that.”

            “What….”

            He didn’t need her to finish the sentence, “I can’t describe it, it felt as if my entire genetic code was rewritten, set on fire from head to foot, ripped apart only to be sown back together again. When it was done…” he shook his head, letting out a breath, “she was there, with John. I can…hear better, I…can see better,” a smile touched the corner of his lip but he kept his upper lip drawn tight over his teeth, making her heart thunder, “I can hear your heartbeat Molly Hooper, I can see its tattoo against your skin, right here,” he pressed his thumb gently against her pulse, “I can smell your confusion, your concern, it smells like,” he inhaled, “a blend of citrus and…burning plastic. But you’re not afraid.”

            Blinking at him, she realized she was twisting his shirt in her fists, wrinkling the material but she couldn’t let go, “you’re—you’re still my Sherlock,” she said matter-of-factly, “so…you’re…you’re a…a vampire now?”

            “I don’t know,” he told her honestly, “I was…informed by the…female that turned me, that there are different types of vampires, and that type is dictated by some ancient strain in each individual’s DNA, an evolutionary back door that’s triggered by extreme circumstances. For some, when they are faced with this particular hardship, they become vampires that depend on the blood of others, some survive on energy, some on emotion. And some,” his eyes flipped to hers, “on sex.”

            Molly’s mind split into two living, warring entities in that moment. The intelligent part of her mind, the part of her that was emotionally and mentally attached to her Sherlock, that wanted him happy and healthy and whole, that would easily lay down her life for his happiness, was worried out of her wits, simultaneously wondering if he’d lost his mind, if she should take him to a psychiatrist for evaluation, to the emergency ward for brain scans to see if he’d hit his head somewhere. The other half of her mind, her lizard mind, her most basic self that starved for his body, came to life and kept making earnest, heartfelt wishes and prayers that he was the latter type of vampire.

            “And—and what do you—” she raised her eyebrows at him.

            “If you don’t leave now Molly Hooper, I will consume you,” he told her frankly, “I will keep you in bed for endless days, take your body and your orgasms and sustain myself with you.”

            “Oh,” she breathed, “oh,” she repeated, “okay, so you’re… _that_ kind of…v—vampire.”

            “You think I’m insane, don’t you,” he laughed softly.

            “A bit,” she murmured, “but you’re Sherlock, and you wouldn’t be telling me this unless you’re playing some sort of joke on me, which I know you’re not because you can’t lie to me.”

            “I physically am incapable of lying to you, we both know that,” he tight smile was angelic.

            “Can I see…Sherlock, open your mouth.”

            He took a second, filling his lungs, his pink tongue wetting his lips before he finally opened his mouth and she gasped, leaning against his body for support as she looked at his inhumanly long canines.

_Fangs_.

_Long fangs._

“Holy _shit_ ,” she managed to let go of his shirt, reaching up to touch one of them and he held still for her, the tension in his body incredible, as if he thought any twitch of his muscles would send her into a tailspin.

She had a feeling he was right.

“I don’t know what….what am I supposed…to say?” she looked up at him, “you still feel like my Sherlock, you look like my Sherlock, you talk like my Sherlock,” she flattened her palm against his chest, smiling, “your heartbeat still feels like my Sherlock’s.”

“I am your Sherlock,” he told her softly, “and this heart will always be yours, no matter what trouble I get in to.”

Molly chuckled, leaning forward and pressed her lips to the base of his throat, his skin cool against her lips as he reached up with the other hand to grip the back of her head, “I love you,” she told him, finally letting go of his shirt, wrapping her arms around his waist.

“I love you too,” he murmured, and finally, finally lowered his head to her, his lips soft, as cool as his throat as they touched her mouth tentatively, as if waiting for her to run away. When she opened her mouth for him, encouraging him to deepen their kiss, she opened her eyes to see that he was watching her the way he always did, even as he dipped his tongue into her mouth. She moaned as she pushed closer to him, his hard body achingly familiar as she held on to him, running her hands up his back, feeling the power of his shoulders, the muscles beneath her palm.

He pulled away, pressing his forehead to hers, gasping, “will you spend the night with me?”

“Sherlock,” she laughed, sinking her fingers into his hair, “you were the one kicking me out a few minutes ago.”

“That was back when you didn’t know—”

“Shut up,” she told him, and let him lift her off the ground as she wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him deeply, sucking his tongue into her mouth as he carried her to his armchair, setting her down and kneeling on the floor between her legs.

She had lied to him, she thought as he pressed his open mouth to her throat, her trembling fingers unbuttoning his shirt and pushing it off his shoulders even as he lifted her t-shirt up and off her, tossing it somewhere behind them, his cold palms against her nipples through her bra making her shiver. He did feel different against her, he tasted different. He was still Sherlock but…not at the same time. He felt bigger, more imposing… _massive_. She had the strange sensation that if she let him, he would overwhelm her completely, take over her entire existence, her being. Enslave her.

When he kissed the inside of her thighs, she watched with breathless anticipation, her fingers sifting through his curls, watching his swollen, red lips kiss the creamy inside of her thighs as she spread herself wantonly for him. She tightened her fingers in his hair as he dragged a long canine over her thigh, watching his pink tongue touch her right _there_ , taste her, enter her so intimately, with such sinful, aching knowing. She arched against him, moaning his name as his clever lips and tongue worked inside her, the pit of her stomach heavy with need, with want. She closed her eyes, letting the sensation flood her as he ate her, consumed her, shook her entire existence.

His voice was deep, garbled, “look at me,” he commanded, and she gasped in shock when she looked down, the pale swirl of greenish blue glowing, “watch me,” he told her, making her scream as he slipped his tongue inside her, as he watched her, as he commanded her to become undone, unglued. She shattered into a million pieces around him, sure that she died as sensations flooded her, as a thousand flames licked her skin just as he licked her.

He made her scream louder as he pulled away, his lips and chin glossy, his eyes holding that unholy glow as he slipped inside her in a single, lithe moment, not letting her settle around his girth as he pumped inside her, pushing inside her with gasps and grunts. She was boneless, collapsing back against the back of the armchair, watching the concentration on his face, watching the powerful muscles in his body grip bone and release with his every movement, her eyes forever finding the scar from his bullet wound.

“Molly,” he gasped, and she lifted herself up again, wrapping her legs around his waist. She always knew when he said her name like that, with undisguised desperation as he drove himself deeper, harder inside her very soul, he needed her to kiss him. And she did, tasting herself on his tongue, shocked as she felt another orgasm lick her spine.

When he sank his fangs into her throat as her second orgasm ripped her reality to shreds, Molly Hooper’s entire world disappeared, reduced to nothing but her love, her Sherlock’s body, his gasps against her throat as he fed from her, as he released all that tension deep within her warmth. Nothing mattered, nothing existed, not even her own screams of pleasure, not the sensation flooding her…just Sherlock. Always Sherlock.

_Only you_.

He pressed his cheek against her chest as their bodies tried to settle, breathing heavily as she ran her hands through his hair, legs still wrapped around his lean waist. “How often do you need to feed?” she asked quietly, her heart finally slowing down to a normal rate, her skin slick with sweat as she held him in her arms.

“Often,” he turned his face to look up at her, “very often. Imagine me as someone constantly on the brink of starvation Molly Hooper, and you my only sustenance,” his features became dark, the savage beauty of his face cast in the shadows almost frightening in their perfection, “I told you I would keep you in bed for days.”

  __

* * *

 

 

Molly Hooper’s eyes flew open and she looked up at the familiar ceiling of 221B Baker Street, blinking in confusion as she tried to figure out what she was hearing, finally recognizing the drone of a television. Her hand fluttered down, touching her pregnant belly, feeling the familiar foot that kicked her from within.

“Molly?” a familiar voice called for her, from somewhere to her left, Sherlock’s face coming into view as he frowned down at her, “you alright?” he asked, his voice filled with concern as he leaned down, touching his fingertips to her cheek.

She thought they felt warmer, familiar, “yeah,” she murmured, “what—happened?”

“Dunno,” he answered, “you just went down for a nap after work, you were making all sorts of noise in your sleep. Were you having a nightmare?”

She laughed, holding her hand out for her husband to help her sit up, loving how careful and gingerly he helped her up before sitting on the coffee table in front of her. She rubbed his simple wedding band between her fingertips, looking into his pale, nearly white eyes with hints of blue and green but they weren’t glowing any more. “Open your mouth,” she told him.

            “What?” he blinked at her.

            “Open your mouth,” she repeated with a laugh, grinning when he appeased her and she saw his normal, white canines where the fangs had been, his skin still palm but warm beneath her touch as she spread his fingers over his chest.

            The same familiar heartbeat.

            “Should I call the doctor?” he was watching her as if she had lost her mind.

            She laughed, shaking her head as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, hugging him, “have I told you how much I love pregnancy dreams?” she asked him, feeling his shoulders tremble with laughter.

           


End file.
